HD 'Diversion'
by tigersilver
Summary: AU, Hogwarts era, 6th Year. Smuff-filled center. Harry's revenge on Malfoy rebounds in the oddest manner.


**HP Diversion**

**di·ver·sion** (d-vûrzhn, -shn, d-)

_n._

**1. **The act or an instance of diverting or turning aside; deviation.

**2. **Something that distracts the mind and relaxes or entertains.

**3. **A maneuver that draws the attention of an opponent away from a planned point of action, especially as part of military strategy.

"Skiving off, Pot-_ter_?"

Draco Malfoy spoke with his usual haughty sneer, the one that grated on Harry's nerves as nothing else ever had. Crabbe and Goyle, in flanking positions, snickered. No surprises today, then. All as usual.

"Since when is it ever your business where I'm going, Malfoy?"

No inflection allowed; voice even and deadpan, Harry's rhetorical remark was not so much a return of Malfoy's as an automatic response in an off-and-on bitter banter battle lasting six long stupid years. Harry gave himself a mental kick for bothering at all at this point and kept walking, vaguely hoping the dispersing lunch crowd noise would drown out the rest of Malfoy's yammering. Because, of course, bloody Malfoy apparently didn't know when to stop. Malfoy never did.

"Don't see what you're so arsy about, Pot-_ter_. I believe it's _always _the business of a superior student and Prefect to keep his eye out for the less fortunate among us. _Potter_."

Harry was nearly out the doors and into the courtyard, Malfoy and minions trailing lackadaisically after. But at an unseen nod from Malfoy, Crabbe accidently-on-purpose edged a massive, meaty shoulder into Harry's trajectory, deflecting him and almost, but not quite, blocking his way.

"That unfortunately includes a deep concern as to what exactly_ you're_ getting up to, Pot-_ter_, toddling off in the wrong direction like that."

Harry paused, edging sideways, eyes straight forward. The afternoon was brilliant and sunny and he had a free period entirely at his disposal. He did not want to waste it messing about with a tick like Malfoy.

"Pot-_ter_." The annoying voice was insistent. "Pay attention, do. You normally have class now, and should be in Magical Creatures, so unless you're ducking again, I do believe you're heading in the wrong direction for the hovel."

"Shut it, Malfoy."

"Hardly, Pot-_ter_," Malfoy drawled. "Unless you're off to shag the Weasel in the Shrieking Shack? Is that it, then? Is that hideous Squib Hagrid still concealing your nancy-boy love affair with the ginger-haired menace for you? Like it's some big _secret_? I thought Gryffindor afforded at least a common room to snog in."

Malfoy had definitely mastered the Slytherin hiss, no question. Venom dripped from every syllable.

Harry halted completely, forcing the other students to part ways around him and the large immoveable object that was Crabbe in semi-orbit to tack leeward. An error, of course, stopping at all. Tragically, too, he felt the first vague stirrings of true anger, roiling his hastily consumed lunch, beating against his suddenly aching head – another error. Idiotically, given these rapid developments and his recent vow to retain his cool no matter the cost, Potter whirled around, facing his nemesis straight-on, and thus immediately decreased his odds of escaping Malfoy unscathed by two hundred percent.

'Never engage; always avoid.' It was a worthwhile lesson he was desperately trying to learn, if only to shut that blasted worm Voldemort out of his own bleeding brain. And he was doing his level best, plodding away at it, and the first—and most obvious— person he'd chosen to practice on was that gormless git, Malfoy. So, this was a—

_Huge error_. Draco Malfoy, Slytherin's poster pretty-boy, had graduated to lounging elegantly against one side of the entrance way's huge stone archway, perfectly adorned in some silk-and-Italian wool version of Harry's plain old school uniform, his pale hands just tucked into the top of his expensive trouser pockets in the most irritating of ways possible, his elegant hips tilted forward just so for maximum effect. Afternoon sunlight halo'ed Malfoy's glorious ice-blonde hair and highlighted the handsome, sharp purity of his angled face. It even sparkled dazzlingly on the shiny surface of the fecking bastard's Prefect's badge, which Malfoy kept pinned prominently on his shoulder at all times, as if it was a fucking Order of Merlin. If there ever—

Harry thought—if there _ever _was one single individual in Hogwarts whose attire and attitude practically screamed 'Prince of Ponce', it was bloody fucking Malfoy.

The pillars of dumb salt who accompanied the shining Prince of Ponciness were now 'har-har'ing' outright and making obscene hand gestures. Harry ignored them, focusing on the pointy git, as he always did. Eventually. Even when he didn't want to.

"Or is it the Mud-_Muggleborn_ who's so eagerly awaiting you, Pot-_ter_, all bushy and bucktoothed and winsome? Maybe your best mate the Weasel's had her—"

Some of the more obtuse First Year students flowed between them, a few turning to glance back when the hand gestures got even cruder. The human traffic only barely obscured the curl of the prat's lip and the quirk of his one perfectly angled eyebrow. Harry saw the first faint tinges of scarlet in the corners of his vision.

"_Already_, and is waiting for a threesome?"

Acid rage consumed him–and honest Gryffindor honor. These twin emotions jolted through Harry instantly, so rapidly he could his hear his ears popping, his vision going completely vermillion. He swallowed hard and struggled to tamp down all the outrageous ire most carefully: Malfoy wasn't worth it. Malfoy was tosser; an irritant of the worst sort, who insisted on dogging Harry's every step lately. Harry had his beloved uncle and cousin to thank for a damned decade of dealing with insults and slights – there was no way a mere Malfoy would snag him and drag him into something pointless and foul when he was just on his way to a destination of actual personal importance. A blissfully free period, entrusted to him by his very first magical friend, Hagrid, in exchange for a service Harry had been going to provide anyway: the remainder of Lockhart's damnable Pixies, found stashed in an Unopenable Casket in the DADA classroom.

Glaring daggers, Harry swallowed back all the acrid words that clogged his tight throat and manfully turned away, mentally cataloguing whatever vicious petty spells he could summon to inflict on Malfoy later, when it wasn't so public a venue.

"Oh, that's right, Pot-_ter_. I forgot," Malfoy continued, taking a lean hand out of one pocket to smooth back his perfectly sleek coif. He smiled toothsomely when Harry hesitated and Harry wanted to deck him. He was surprised that he hadn't walloped Malfoy one already, right across the kisser. He congratulated himself heartily for _not_ hitting him.

"You're all caught up in your 'research', aren't you, Pottyhead? No time in your busy schedule for simple snogging, is there? It's all about Potions and your _special little book_."

A moment of silence, while Harry concentrated on staying blank-faced and impervious, eyeing Malfoy carefully out of the corner of his eye and Malfoy watched him, hawklike, for signs of discomposure. The other students kept moving, out the doors or off to classrooms, much less interested now that this example of a regular Potter-Malfoy encounter hadn't erupted into immediate fisticuffs and hexing. Harry blinked once behind his spectacles and thought of various ways to remove Malfoy from his path, permanently. Irrevocably. Without getting expelled. His 'special little book' might very well have some. He couldn't wait to check. Really.

"Pity, Pot-_ter_." Merlin's Beard, that emphasis on the second syllable of his surname was so damned _annoying_!

"That you're so occupied with the Weasel and the Mudblood you can't bring yourself to share whatever is in your little text. No doubt it would be a benefit to all of us. I do believe I should take the matter up with the Prof—"

Harry blinked a second time, reptilian, and nearly grinned, silently thanking Malfoy for the splendid idea. Simple _snogging._ Just simple…

_Snogging_. Brilliant! Harry gathered up all his considerable courage, green eyes narrowed suddenly against the glare of the autumn sunshine, the reflected gleam bouncing off the ponce's stupid hair. This would mean weeks, if not months, of good-natured teasing from his friends (and possibly outright horror on Ron's part) and very likely a certain degree of actual shunning from the rest of the Hogwarts Houses, but hopefully they'd all take it as just a huge joke. On _Malfoy_. Malfoy, the Little Lord Fauntleroy of Slytherin House, perfect and untouchable—and it wasn't like _Harry_ was worried about _his_ manliness – oh, no, no, that should be Malfoy's problem, the prat, with his too nice clothes and too, too nice broom and too nice—

"—essor."

Malfoy chose that moment to step languidly forward from his artfully arranged position, and Harry was visited very briefly with the startling notion the Blonde Menace was concerned. Perhaps because he hadn't gotten a rise out his favorite object of torment. Perhaps because some slimy sixth sense was warning him Harry's actual response to all this botheration was not going to be pleasant. Perhaps because—

This was going to be simply Slytherin of Potter.

Harry stepped forward, too, the faintest of pleasant smiles on his face as he contemplated revenge and the amazing lengths he'd go for it. This was an idiotic plan and he knew it. Made no difference, though, if he could just shut the stupid, annoying prat up for once. So he whipped one hand out, wandless, and caught Malfoy's thin pale wrist before the boy could reach for his own. Years of picking Snitches out of thin air really paid off. Harry _was _faster.

"_Potter!_ You take your filthy hand off me, imbecile!"

Malfoy's cultured voice rose to a screech as he realized he was fairly caught and being yanked off-balance; Crabbe and Goyle lurched forward, finally getting it. Harry tugged sharply on the wrist he'd manacled and, with a swish of expensive fabric and an elegant twist, Draco Malfoy, the most annoying arse Harry had ever the bad fortune to meet in this lifetime, or _any_ lifetime, tumbled straight into Harry's waiting arms.

It was fast and it was bruising; Harry used no gentleness whatsoever and none of the expertise he'd been taught over the last few months, kissing 'nice' girls and boys. No, he rammed his tongue in, effectively clipping off Malfoy's enraged squeal mid-shriek. He wreathed his potion-stained fingers into the snowy hair, gripping it roughly, snagging it on chewed nails and uneven cuticles, and used his other arm and hand to hold a struggling Malfoy immobile.

He _kissed_ Malfoy: stuffed his tongue down Malfoy's skinny white throat; pashed him, necked him, Frenched him, _violated him—_hard and nasty, with murderous intent, and when the boy's pouty bottom lip split under the pressure of his teeth, Harry only slurped up the drops of blood and snogged the git harder still.

Malfoy's pet baboons stared, slack-mouthed. The rush of passing students halted abruptly, mid-stream, and gathered into a hushed little knot 'round the two of them, gaping. Precisely one-hundred-twenty seconds later – by which count there could be absolutely no mistake about what had just happened—Harry lifted his red-stained wet mouth triumphantly and sneered gloriously into the stunned face of a silently gawping, sides-heaving, eyelash-fluttering Draco Malfoy. It was _brill_ – no way in Nine Hells was Malfoy ever, _ever_ going to risk teasing him again!

Smashing!

Harry let go, not saying a word, and adroitly stepped back a fair distance, dusting his hands thoroughly to rid them of any clinging Malfoy cooties. Suddenly contemplative, he stood for a long moment, a satisfied smirk on his face, savoring the golden silence engendered by a distinct _lack_ of that irritating drawl, the one he'd been haunted with for year upon agonizing year, pestering, questioning, insinuating, _irritating_. Far off on the very brink of Harry's consciousness there were only the faint sounds of a pillock gasping harshly, hauling air into lungs that had been cruelly deprived.

And then the enraged Slytherin hauled off and punched Harry squarely in the midriff, screaming bloody murder and horrible vengeance and every insult his swollen lips could spit, and Harry had to duck backwards, laughing and coughing, and commence running away, something he was very, very good at. The noise of students murmuring excitedly swelled to a roar behind him as he loped off, interlaced with the still strident yelps of a prat deeply indignant. Harry scrubbed his lips clean with the back of his hand for the fifteenth time in as many seconds, finally Scourgified them, and grinned in utter unmitigated delight.

_Now_ he could finally go retrieve his broom from the Quidditch locker room where he'd stashed it and do some actual flying – an hour or so's freedom on a fucking fantabulous day. Something _he _wanted, for once, instead of something someone else wanted of him.

Thus, two lovely quiet weeks passed and Malfoy flatly refused to come anywhere near his so-called arch-rival. He wouldn't speak to him, even to insult him; wouldn't look his way, no matter the provocation; wouldn't acknowledge that there was such a thing as a Harry Potter at Hogwarts. All on their own, the Gryffindors put it about that Harry was a fucking genius, eviscerating that sodding Malfoy Menace's puffed up pride in such a execrably demeaning way, without even using a single spell, hex or potion, and further, in a way that wouldn't get the Boy-Who-Kissed in any hot water whatsoever while still inflicting the worst of punishments on Malfoy's golden person: innuendo and rumor. For there was no rule or regulation in place concerning snogging one's childhood enemy into blessed silence—nor leveling his much-vaunted pureblood pride, either!

Malfoy was _easy_; Malfoy was the Lavender Brown of Slytherin. Malfoy had _enjoyed _his taste of Gryffindor's resident half-blood Hero far too much for anyone to deny it – he'd been gagging for it, really; had wanted into Potter's trousers for years now and now Potter had taught Malfoy exactly what it was to _want and not have_.

Harry Potter, far from becoming a social pariah, actually enjoyed a brief spell of extreme popularity with all the girls in school: some who'd seen or heard tell of the Kiss and quivered over the attraction of its sheer animalistic passion; some, who had great prurient interest in the sexuality of the Boy Who Lived (And Kissed Like A Mad Animal) – or that of Draco Malfoy, the Boy Who Stalked Potter Relentlessly (And Apparently, With Snogging on His Agenda.)

Still, it all blew over quickly; other scandals and gossip were readily available for the student's fodder, and Potter and Malfoy had been fighting forever, anyway, so by month's end who cared if Potter had come up with some new, ingenious way of showing up Malfoy? It wasn't as though Malfoy's ongoing obsession with Potter was any huge surprise at this point, was it? So, perhaps it wasn't a full fortnight before Harry felt those grey eyes fixed on him again, but Malfoy kept his distance, regardless, and Harry was glad.

One fine autumn evening after 'The Incident", a mildly revved-up Potter was off to the Shrieking Shack, late on Saturday night and shortly after curfew, cloaked so Filch wouldn't see. With luck and good timing, his friend Tonks would already be at the Shack to meet with him, the plan being to rehearse a few of the Auror's methods Harry wanted to introduce to the DA. There were plenty of flashy, disconcertingly offensive spells that had been faddishly popular in the era of Muggle Disco and had since fallen out of favor, and some were downright Machiavellian – Weasleyan, really – in their effectiveness at stymieing enemies, and Tonks knew rather a lot of these, courtesy of her blood traitor mother, Andromeda. Plus, she was actually willing to take the time to teach him, and _that _wasn't something to turn up his nose up to. It was hard enough, at times, to get some of the adults to take Harry seriously ('he's just a boy!' as Molly Weasley kept repeating, to any and all who'd listen) and what better way to show his maturity than a little extracurricular work—not to mention the advantage of having his own little repertoire of seldom-used hexes at the ready?

With those hopeful, happy thoughts to spur him on, Potter took off his cloak just a moment too soon. And a few too many steps short of the actual doorway.

_Snagged!_ His arm, the one the cloak was folded over, was grabbed fiercely. Harry was hooked and whipped quick as winking into the deserted boy's lav before he could even inhale enough breath to shout out. The tall door shut fast behind him in a twinkling, locking itself three different ways, and a quick-thinking Potter jerked and ducked in practiced DA fashion, scrambling to get into dueling stance and spinning about on the slippery tile to face head-on whichever bastard had just dared manhandle him, his trusty wand nearly at the ready.

But not soon enough. Sometimes the Slytherin git _was _faster.

"Malfoy!"

Rising from his defensive crouch, Harry surged forward, wand straight out, roaring—too late—

Too late.

"Petrificus Totalus!"

Shit! _Too late!_

Harry stood, frozen, arms akimbo and feet every which way, unable even to blink and shut out the sight of an infuriated Draco Malfoy. The cloak dangled from his arm and shoulder, shimmering faintly in the fluorescent lights.

"Potter! You speccy, insolent little bastard! I've got my hands on you at last, fool, and _you shall pay_!"

*

But there was no use screaming imprecations at someone who couldn't scream back. Clamping his lips shut, Malfoy quickly cast a Silencio to be sure and then slid the glimmering cloak gingerly off Potter's arm, making much business out of folding it neatly and laying it on the marble countertop, carefully keeping it out of the puddles. Next, he used a barely heard Leviosa, and Harry found himself rising a few inches and floating backwards, wondering all the while if Malfoy planned to slam him into the bathroom wall for a lark.

Nothing of the sort; he was set down fairly gently against the blank expanse of stark white tile between the upper storey arching windows, grateful for the pain that hadn't happened yet but very unhappily aware that he was now in a position somewhat resembling an archery target – all clear for yards and yards around him and nothing _but_ him to attract anyone's aim, no matter how bad. But the prat-of-ages didn't take advantage of that, oddly; in fact, Malfoy said nothing further, or at least not that Potter could catch, only smiled grimly and hummed some annoying melody very much under his breath, which was actually much, much odder and far more frightening.

Harry eyed him. He'd expected immediate retaliation and it wasn't happening. With nothing much else available in his limited range of vision, Potter noticed the Slytherin's distinctive grey eyes were silver-blue in the magically dimmed fluorescent lights and the git's phenomenally perfect hair was spangled as well with small blue sparkles, an elfin sheen that enhanced Malfoy's normal level of attractiveness to grandiose levels. That was, sadly, of interest only to Harry's sense of aesthetics. So Harry watched his fellow Wizard, wide-eyed, silent, and hoped against hope the arsewipe would take no further interest in his cloak. There was absolutely no doubt in Potter's mind he was in for the beating of his short life, but Ron and Hermione would eventually come find him, or Filch, maybe, making his rounds, so probably he wouldn't actually die.

He hoped.

The Slytherin strolled closer the second his spell set Potter down, his perfect lips curled into the familiar sneer that always ruined what Harry thought could've been a nice enough face.

"I suppose you're wondering, Pot-_ter_. About what's going to happen to you now."

Malfoy raised his wand again and Harry thought about flinching, but he couldn't move, naturally, so he didn't. He _wasn't_ wondering, actually, because he'd rather decided he already _knew_ what was going to happen to him next and it would no doubt be very unpleasant and bloody and probably horrible embarrassing.

A pale pink light shot from Malfoy's wand, bathing Potter from nipples to lower thighs, and the boy muttered something that left Harry feeling oddly prickly where the light had been, and so softly that Harry's straining ears couldn't possibly discern what hex it had been. The blonde got even closer to Harry immediately after; a hand's-breadth away, barely, and pulled a tiny purple vial from his robe sleeve. He uncorked it carefully and raised it into the glow of bathroom's radiant cold blue light so that it glittered a lovely amethyst.

Malfoy had the unknown potion tipped up and emptied into Harry's silently-shouting mouth so rapidly the boy's gag reflex tripped and he choked in defense, spewing half of the sticky stuff back out again, where it dripped messily down his shirtfront. The Slytherin glared his annoyance and tucked the tiny bottle away again, peering delicately into Harry's open mouth and down his burning throat to make sure enough had gotten to where he wanted it, and then manicured fingers grasped gently at Harry's chin and pushed it up so that the remainder of the liquid collecting under his immobile tongue trickled slowly down the column of Harry's neck, warming as it went.

"Not_ funny_, Pot-_ter_!" he snarled, shutting Harry's jaw with a snap. "This is your _punishment_. Take it like a good boy, won't you?"

Malfoy stepped back finally and Harry sighed with relief, or tried to, the remnants of the potion still tingling against his tongue and throat, tasting oddly of chocolate and catmint and heated pewter goblets. He didn't feel anything nasty yet, but that didn't mean a damned thing; the crocodilian Malfoy was perfectly capable of administering some slow-acting poison, roughing him up and then allowing him to be conveniently 'mislaid' till the very last minute. He only wondered where Crabbe and Goyle were: surely Malfoy would've brought them along if he were planning something unpleasantly physical?

While Potter wasn't concentrating, a bit abstracted perhaps by the insidious warmth creeping down his esophagus, Malfoy raised his wand again. One jabbing pass and Harry could blink again and flex his neck gratefully, swallowing hard to get the last of the not-unpleasant taste out of his mouth. Another flick, and Harry's darkly stained and damp hunter-green shirt was unbuttoning itself rapidly and sliding off him with a swish. It, too, was folded neatly mid-air and then laid on the edge of the sink. Harry could've sworn he saw the faint haze that meant Scourgify in the midst of the rustle, but why the heck would Malfoy give a shite about his shirt?

Harry's too-large trousers were next, and his green eyes went very wide at that, but they were only barely loosened at the waist, sagging a little as his belt was whipped off instead, coiled neatly and levitated to rest next to his cloak and shirt. His trainers untied themselves; his stiffened body bounced merrily into the air for a split-second at the wand's command, and then they too slipped off and danced away, lining up neatly under the sink, suddenly highly white-polished and bleached, to match the new-leather gleam of his ratty old hand-me-down belt.

Seriously perplexed, Potter stared at the unfathomable Slytherin before him, his tingling lips parted, trying desperately to sort out what Malfoy could possibly want with him next. The suspense was killer; give Potter some action so that he could do _something_ – make him wait and wonder and he would begin losing it. Harry was so caught up in the quandary it took him another moment to realize the typical Malfoy sneer was entirely absent–had been, actually, for quite some time. Malfoy appeared vastly serious now, though, and rather grim 'round the eyes and temples, in odd contrast to the ever-present half-smile he'd been sporting since the moment Harry'd been petrified, and he was once again _closer_. Much closer, to be sure, than he'd ever been to Harry except for those occasions when they'd been engaged in fisticuffs and hard scuffles. The intriguing drift of lime, sea salt and rising sap that that the Malfoy menfolk no doubt had blended especially for them at some highbrow Wizarding perfumery was now clogging up Harry's olfactory senses entirely, making his mouth—_eyes _water.

Supremely unable to protest this verbally despite the slight relief Malfoy's adjustment of the Petrificus had wrought, Potter winced faintly at the too-familiar face not an inch from his own; the Prince's berobed shoulders and pointy chin and sharp nose and pink lips—his execrably poncy visage took up a very large part of Potter's direct and peripheral vision.

It would be much, much worse, then; this 'punishment' he was in for. Harry sincerely hoped his contrary luck would kick in at the last moment, or he wasn't going to survive long enough to even consider going after Voldemort in some sort of show-down.

But his nemesis only neatly tucked his own wand away up one capacious sleeve and brought his already rising hands apart to slide whisper-light against either side of Harry's exposed neck, leaning in another half-inch to jam his pointy elbows into the wall above Harry's bared shoulder blades. The feathery tips of Malfoy's satiny fringe swung forward, brushing Harry's forehead.

"Do you know what you did to me, Potter? Do you have _any idea_?"

Malfoy's voice was harsh and rough and only one step above a whisper, buzzing into Harry's ear. To Harry, now inured to Malfoy's eerie near-silence throughout most of the vastly puzzling proceedings, it was startlingly loud. Green eyes widened behind the glasses, but Harry couldn't speak. Wasn't allowed to, apparently.

"You laid your hands on _me _in public – _you_! You dared snog _me_, Potter, a Malfoy," the voice was liquid again, a step nearer the languid drawl Harry was used to. The one he heartily disliked.

"With the same mouth you use to constantly revile me, Pot-_ter_; the very same one you employ to inform the world exactly how very much you despise me."

_Um_, Harry thought. _Right, okay. His _had _been a bit of an odd revenge_, he admitted, _but all was fair—_

"In _public_, Pot-_ter_. Without. My. _Consent_."

Malfoy's palms slid up, damp and hot, and Harry's jaw was firmly captured and held steady. The pale face drew nearer still, till all Harry could see were half-lidded eyes looming, grey-sheened silver, fringed with long, translucent lashes, and a flutter of equally pale, razor-cut hair falling over a perfectly straight nose. The Slytherin's words were sharp-edged glass, the glimmer of Draco Malfoy's remembered horrified embarrassment before nearly all of Hogwarts student body, his eternal shame at being snogged by a commoner in the public eye—all this anguish was etched among his biting syllables in acid tracery, pitting angry holes in the studied drawl.

Oddly, that made Harry feel more comfortable. Anger made Malfoy far more approachable than weirdly half-smiling silence ever did. But Malfoy must've heard it himself, and disapproved, for he paused, swallowing hard.

And licked Potter's face up one side, from jaw to brow, his narrow liver-pink tongue leaving a burning, freezing trail.

"I'm going to punish you, Potter," the Slytherin continued. "I'm going to make it so you _never_ dare touch me again without knowing you'll be punished in return."

Harry's face was assaulted once more, a quicksilver lapping of tongue tip dancing across his furrowed forehead, both eyelids, the angle of the opposite cheek.

"And, Pot-_ter_, I'm going-_nip_-to-_nibble-_enjoy_-slurp_-it," Malfoy breathed against the corner of Harry's mouth. "Enjoy _you_."

There it was, that poisonous Slytherin hiss, only good for inflicting mental scarring, and Potter would've hexed Malfoy with everything he had in him if he could've.

As it was, Potter had no warning but the puff of minty breath passing over his tastebuds a split-second before Malfoy's wicked tongue followed it, slippery-soft and beguiling. Drawing back for a half-a-heartbeat, Malfoy breathed another inaudible spell and plunged in deeper, and suddenly Harry had teeth, gums and tongue he could fully feel.

"_Harry_."

Malfoy's elegant hands had slipped to Harry's frozen shoulders as he pressed the struck-still Potter against the coolness of the tiled wall, grinding his red lips harder, biting, forcing Harry's to stay parted. He'd touched his childhood foe only neck and above before; now Malfoy's burning fingers found their way down Potter's throat and nape and bared clavicle to his narrow waist and boney hips and clung there fiercely, as if Harry might actually have had some real chance at escaping. With a jerk, Harry was yanked abruptly against the warm, breathing wall of Malfoy's torso, and a long-fingered hand familiarly splayed across his ass shoved his pelvis in roughly the same direction. Malfoy and Potter collided full-body, bones mismatched under fabric, and Harry felt the jar of solid muscle sheathing narrow bone ricocheting deep within him, stirring up a latent tangled heat in his chest.

He'd forgotten all about that potion Malfoy induced him to swallow! Shite!

Potter would've laughed, it was so ridiculous–him forgetting, in the heat of the moment; Malfoy snogging him as if there was no tomorrow—but there was an uneasy warm sensation in his midsection and Draco Malfoy gave him no time to breathe, much less laugh, much less hex or bite or turn his head away from Malfoy's invading tongue.

A second later Harry was _hot_, burning as the unknown liquid he'd unwillingly swallowed minutes earlier finally reached his stomach and imploded. Draco Malfoy was hotter still, a gasping burning brand surrounding Potter, sticking his nasty wet tongue in Harry's ear and panting his given name as if he now owned it; writhing all over his archenemy like a man possessed.

"Harry, _Harry_!"

Potter couldn't speak; couldn't spell; couldn't even scream at this weird, creepy violation of all his exposed bits. Malfoy's hands were just as insane as the rest of him, tweaking at Harry's nipples as they passed, gripping at his waist and buttocks in a frenzy, rocking Harry's trousers off his hips so that they slid down entirely, exposing his drawers. His mouth was full of Draco Malfoy, squirming, nipping, pushing deep enough to make him gag.

Harry was near to passing out from lack of oxygen when Malfoy finally stopped, shuddering hard and rearing back as if Potter _had _finally bitten him. Harry had considered it, briefly, but he couldn't seem to do a thing to make this absolutely non-consensual snogging-of-a-lifetime cease. It was as if his potion-infused body wouldn't allow it, even if he hadn't been the victim of Malfoy's Petrificus, and no matter how loudly his mind was shrieking that he must twist away–must headbutt Malfoy into oblivion–must do anything at all that would lead to _running away, _he simply couldn't do it.

The pale vicious fingers were splayed wide across the tiled wall now, inches from Harry's head on either side, and Malfoy must've gotten his own breath back, because he sounded just like always—horrid, nasty prat.

"Didn't like it, Pot-_ter_?"

Green eyes snapped open to meet grey. Harry hadn't realized they were closed, hadn't realized his glasses were gone; he couldn't see clearly, but the face right in front of his was still grim, though pink around the edges now with exertion. Harry had the utterly silly and off-topic notion that if he could actually see far enough away without them, he'd find his spectacles neatly folded on top of his clothes, completely smudge-free and meticulously mended. Malfoy was apparently an obsessive neatnik, damn it, and he couldn't seem to keep his sickness to himself.

"It's 'punishment', you see," Malfoy taunted, his normal tenor voice dropping down to that oddly gravelly octave Potter didn't recognize. "You don't _have_ to like it."

The blonde head bowed as Malfoy pushed himself abruptly away from the wall—and Harry—and those weird grey eyes were longer glaring at him, full of some dark emotion that Harry could only guess at. Not once in these long years had Draco Malfoy looked at Harry Potter exactly like that, at least not that Harry'd ever seen; Potter had no idea of what to make of it. But Miserable Malfoy was in motion again, clearly not waiting about for an answer he knew Harry couldn't give.

Instead, he slid down to his knees gracefully, as he did everything, and a hapless be-potioned Potter was entangled in a glamour borne of that clean elegant form moving and found delight in the way the white hands trailed down the jut of his now bared hips and the backs of his sensitive knees. Harry blinked in light-headed confusion; Malfoy was staring up at him, his pale patrician face blurry in the cold light, strangely beautiful. Seductive, perhaps.

"You know, you probably won't like _this_, either. _Harry_."

Harry's mind boggled and tangled and flinched away from the concept of _Malfoy_ on the floor of the Men's, on his bloody knees, in front of him, _Harry Potter_. It sought escape frantically when that same Draco Malfoy—the one who'd beaten him mercilessly and tattled on him every chance he got–_that_ Draco Malfoy dragged Harry's boxers down to his ankles, and sank his lint-white head between Harry's parted thighs, inhaling deeply, as if soap and sweat and fear were a major aromatic turn-on.

Really, really, _really_ Harry couldn't believe what he was fairly sure was going happen next. Really, _really_.

The Gryffindor wizardling had gotten a blow-job from one very enthusiastic date, rather against his will, to be sure. It had been wildly exciting and excessively relaxing and Harry had thanked her nicely and then never, ever dated her again. His mind, after all, needed to stay firmly inside his skull, thank you, instead of being blown away entirely. He needed all his faculties, honestly, just staying alive.

Malfoy's technique was in no way similar. _She'd_ been enthusiastic; Malfoy was a technical _master_. _She'd_ been excited and uncomfortably exciting; Malfoy was sultry enticement _incarnate_.

Harry's member was engulfed and then swallowed; he could've sworn Draco unhinged his jaw to do it, just like his House mascot. Whatever; the all-around suckling and convulsive throat movement and wet heat made Harry's own metaphorical jaw land somewhere on the floor, lost in the shuffle. It stayed there, not needed, as Harry couldn't utter a single sound; couldn't twitch like he wanted to, nor shriek appropriately when the tip of Draco's slithery tongue dug firmly into his slit. And the hands – oh, the hands! Draco's fingers were sliding and caressing and milking and squeezing, and all through his waist and his thighs and his chest and his bottom Harry felt warm and liquid and sloshy.

It was heaven, hell and a tornado. Not even ten seconds passed and Harry Potter was supremely defeated and knew it. He gave in soundlessly, just as he'd silently resisted, and Malfoy seemed immediately to sense this and glanced up to gauge his enemy's reaction, mumbling a couple of words thickly before he dove back in again, smeared lips curved in triumph, eyes preternaturally lit with some other weird Malfoy emotion Harry had no chance to fathom.

"_-rry_…"

Now Potter could tremble and sag; sigh languorously and grab at the milk-pale silk below him as a place to hold onto in an uncertain world. His knees were nearly gone; it was Malfoy holding him up, somehow, arm like a steel band across his waist, shoulders pressing his buttocks solidly into the wall, and Harry made a mental note to thank his second-greatest enemy, later. Not now, of course, because now he was being eaten alive and he didn't want to risk interrupting the devourer, who happened to be Draco Malfoy, oddly enough.

Potter had very few words to describe the next part – when Draco Malfoy licked his own fingers and then slid them sweetly into Harry's ass, one by one, his mouth only leaving Harry for that one long moment it took to drench them in saliva, the empty, aching seconds in which Potter firmly believed he'd die of sheer want. Then Malfoy was speaking again and Harry really wished he'd stop, because of course he couldn't understand a word in this state and the muffled movements against his rigid shaft were already well on their way to shredding those few remaining pangs of consciousness zinging through his faraway brain.

Malfoy sucked harder, tongue laid flat along the underside of Harry's straining cock, perfect nose buried in unruly black pubes. He pushed his three fingers more deeply into Harry's quivering ass and finally found what he'd evidently been searching for: some particular magical place that Harry Potter, for one, had never even known existed. Harry's head slammed back into the tiled wall behind him, smacking sharply, making him see stars he didn't even _see_, so far gone was he.

He was _delighted_; he was ensorcelled. He wanted Draco—er, Malfoy—never, _ever_ to stop, not even if the world itself decided to. Even if Malfoy was obviously a bad egg, even if they'd never once gotten along, even if Malfoy was a git and a tosser and ponce and bad blood to the bone and a would-be Death Eater—

He should resist. 'Never engage, never—!'

Those peculiar Gryffindorish 'something's not right!' instincts were getting in the way of his slavish enjoyment, Harry decided abruptly. He shoved Draco's head more firmly into his crotch to make them shut up.

As a reward, Malfoy licked him as if he were one of Malfoy's favorite blood-pops, stroking a wicked tongue tip up and then fluting his swollen lips back down to the nest of curls at the base of Harry's cock. He did this again and again, alternating with gentle sucking, teeth tugging at the curls and lipping them, blowing hot on the glazed crown of Potter's other wand and then doing his boa trick—swallowing, swallowing—until Harry tottered completely off the balance of rigid legs and collapsed sideways down the tiled wall in a heap. Malfoy instantly scrambled to catch him, cheekbone pressed hard into Harry's twitching abdomen and robed arms tight about his hips, muttering, muttering, till an entirely unpetrified Potter was finally settled boneless and pliant on the disinfectant-scrubbed floor, back propped against the cold wall, helpless as a hamstrung hippogryph, knees instinctively drawn up to give his sworn enemy all the access he might want to Potter's privates.

Malfoy was a damned villain–he went right back to inflicting his diabolical punishment. Harry could've kissed him for it, pointy git.

At some point quite soon after that Potter began to cry, the tears gathering slowly and then plopping down to land on his bowed chest. He couldn't sob, of course – Malfoy had kept him silent all this time – but he had to do _something _with this tidal wave of emotion running rampant within him, and this was the best he could do, struck mute. Malfoy didn't look up at the feel and sound of Harry's half-hitched tremors and inhalations; he'd kept those grey eyes tightly closed all the while after that one startled glance, catching Harry, and it wasn't till the salt-sweet flow finally seeped down to Harry's clenching stomach that he appeared to notice Harry's tears at all.

Malfoy stopped sucking all at once to examine the minute trickles of wet, and Harry couldn't see his expression, what with his fair head bent at that angle and the fine silvery strands shielding everything but the flex of Malfoy's chiseled jaw, so he waited in a fine dither of nerves for Draco to begin again.

Malfoy did something curious first: he licked them, Harry's tears, lapping them up with care from where they'd dripped down to dampen Potter's burning skin and pool in his navel. It was so strange – and so comforting somehow, as if Harry's unwanted, embarrassing response actually _mattered_ – that Potter stopped crying and hiccupped instead. It was the first sound he'd made successfully of his own volition since he stepped through the door, shouting "Malfoy!"

Grunting wordlessly, Malfoy swiftly licked up the remainder and blindly slid his wide-spread shoulders into Harry's middle like a train wreck – the uppity Slytherin was sprawled all over the floor by now, just so he could better torment Potter – hugging him fiercely, blonde head tucked neatly against Harry's thundering heart, straining under the robes he still wore to keep Potter tight against him, steadied between the cold wall and his own overly warm body. Harry liked this silent comfort; so much so he spoke.

"M-Malfoy?"

The silvery eyes glanced up, fascinating and unreadable, and then Malfoy's tight expression eased into a tentatively sunny grin, one very far indeed from the horribly serious non-smile Harry hadn't liked earlier. One a million light years away from his usual despising sneer.

"Potter."

A damp-faced but no longer actively crying Potter was squeezed again for his troubles and then Draco turned his amazing gaze back to Potter's dick, eyeing it as if it would unstiffen any moment if he wasn't right there paying close attention.

"Let me finish. I'll make you feel good."

Harry Potter made no demur. He wasn't going anywhere, anyway, not on legs like these, and besides, this felt brilliantly, excellently, absurdly, delightfully _ecstatic_. To show his total and complete approval of the plan at hand, Harry opened his thighs wider and raised his knees higher in silent acceptance. Malfoy, being the grandstander Potter knew him to be, immediately took Potter up on the challenge, redoubling his efforts to reduce Harry's mental function to total mush.

Then it was all over but the shouting. Harry _could_ shout now, so he did. Malfoy seemed to enjoy Potter's whimpery moans more, so Harry made sure to allow for plenty of that sort of thing in addition, throwing in a few gasps and general pleadings to 'go faster' and 'don't stop', as well as a last-minute 'stop-_oh gods!-_don't! Yes, yes, _please!!_'

The toffee-nosed git known as Draco Malfoy came unnoticed on the chilled floor still belted up firmly inside his black woolen trousers, humping bleak disinfected lavatory tile, silently shivering as he swallowed Potter essence down. It was the second time he'd cum since the beginning of the 'Second Snogging Incident', but he didn't even consider mentioning his momentary physical bliss to his Gryffindor enemy. Potter would snigger if he were made aware his starchy prig of an arch-rival came with just one heated snog and a forced one at that. He'd go on to mock Draco unmercifully if he knew his six-year's bane had just orgasmed _again_, entirely untouched by Harry's hands—the best shag he'd ever had, the best there ever _was—_ just from the _taste_ of Harry, the _feel_ and s_cent_ and _existence_ of him, captured for an unwilling moment in Draco Malfoy's hungry arms.

Malfoy donned his cool and imperturbable Slytherin mask instead, and sat up slowly, coughing discreetly and wiping his mouth and watching Potter both openly and covertly, his grey eyes narrowed and very dark indeed in the shadows.

Potter merely blinked owlishly at him, his face awash in shifting watery moonlight, vivid green eyes wonderfully unfocused, the very picture of despoiled Gryffindor innocence.

Malfoy had Potter on his feet a moment after he was, giving him a hand up, and scoured gently clean and fully dressed in his robes and kit. A trembling Chosen One examined his pristine cuffs through his newly mended crystal-clear glasses and relied on the comforting warmth of Draco Malfoy to support him for just another moment.

Even his teeth felt very shiny, Harry realized with some astonishment, gingerly running a questing tongue across them.

"You're _late_, Potter."

The Malfoy drawl was back but maybe it wasn't quite so directly insulting now.

"Never make a_ lady_ wait for an appointment, four-eyes, or you'll be known as the common-garden pleb you _are_. Now, get moving."

Draco stepped back reluctantly, perfect in his black and green and silver attire, that godawful smirk plastered once more all over his pretty, pointy face, and smacked Harry Potter hard across the ass in encouragement. The blow ended in a grope and a tickle.

"Hmmm?"

An unsupported Potter swayed dangerously for a moment, finding his sea legs just as it seemed Malfoy would be compelled to close in again and 'punish' Harry some more.

"Pot-_ter_!"

"Ah? Yes?"

"You do realize? I haven't forgiven you—kiss _me_ again, you tosser," Malfoy gloated, sinking back into one of his dreadfully elegant poses against the marble sink top, "and you _know_ what I'll do to you."

"Oh! R-Right!"

Harry blushed at the clear and undeniable threat and quickly made for the lav door, precious cloak slung back over his arm, feeling greatly refreshed and enthused about Life.

"Got it!"

Somehow, Harry's mind was so much clearer now. Somehow, his chest felt so much lighter. Somehow, ol' Moldy Voldy was starting to look like no contest _at all_. With a feeling of devil-may-care daring he hadn't experienced in entirely too long a time, Harry stole one last glimpse at his childhood nemesis, insolently arrayed in all his Slytherin splendour with his ramrod stiff back resting against the Men's full-length mirror. Harry's eyebrows arched slightly in sudden and deeply appreciative realization: Malfoy had a very nice—

"_Arse_."

Potter threw his off-handed response fondly over his shoulder, ducking out carefully in case Filch was lurking.

"Count on it."


End file.
